Wolverine

The heavy oak door to the Mansion’s back study slammed open with enough force to rattle the glass frames along the wall, bringing the quiet chatter in the room to an abrupt halt.

There stood Logan. Or what was left of him, anyway.

He was completely, shamelessly stark naked. His entire yellow-and-blue uniform had been shredded to absolute ribbons, save for the blue-and-black cowl still clamped tightly over the top half of his head. The opaque white eye lenses glinted under the warm party lights, making him look like a feral, displaced gargoyle.

He stood at a mere 5'4", but his absurdly bulky, 310-pound frame filled the doorway entirely. His broad chest was a wall of thick, pliant pecs coated in a dense layer of dark, fuzzy hair that trailed heavily down his dense block of abs. Massive, vein-pocked biceps—thick as tree trunks—hung at his sides, trembling slightly as his rapid healing factor finished knitting together fresh claw marks across his ribs. The pungent, sharp iron scent of blood and burnt ozone drifted into the room, rapidly fading as his hyper-metabolism sealed the last of his skin with a faint, wet sizzle.

In his right hand, he was hauling two massive, unrefined steel kegs of high-proof whiskey by their heavy iron handles, carrying them as effortlessly as a pair of grocery bags. A half-chewed, unlit cigar was clamped between his teeth, riding high on a jawline framed by his thick, coarse mutton chops.

"Don't start," Logan grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded like grinding stones. He didn't even bother covering himself, casually stepping into the room with his heavy, calloused feet slapping bare against the floorboards. "Victor caught my scent three miles out off the highway. Big bastard thought it’d be cute to ruin my evening."

He let out a sharp, guttural snort, rolling his thick, hairy shoulders with an audible pop. He set the two heavy kegs down onto the wooden table with a bone-rattling THUD, instantly cracking the finish on the varnish.

"Ripped up the suit. Tore the truck seat to hell. And worst of all..." He reached up, unlatching his cowl and pulling the tight mask down around his thick neck. His dark-brown, coarse hair immediately flared out near his temples in its natural, messy wave, framing a face set in a deep, perpetual scowl beneath his heavy brow. "He shredded the box I was carrying. Had a damn fine pair of custom leather riding gloves wrapped up for ya, kid. They’re somewhere in a ditch near the river now."

Logan spat a bit of cigar leaf onto the floor, his deep-set hazel eyes locking onto you from under his low brow. His expression didn't soften—it rarely ever did—but the sharp edge in his gaze dulled just a fraction.

He leaned one massive, hair-dusted forearm against the top of a keg, the dense muscle peaking effortlessly under the weight.

"So, yeah. I'm late, I'm bare-ass naked, and your present is coyote feed," he muttered, reaching out with a thick, calloused thumb to flick the heavy tap on the first keg. "But I brought the good stuff. The high-octane scotch Xavier keeps locked up in the sub-cellar. My liver's gonna burn through it in about thirty seconds flat, so I'm planning on guzzling both of these till I feel human for five minutes."

He grabbed a heavy glass mug off the side table, filled it to the brim with amber liquid, and shoved it roughly toward your chest with a blunt, heavy-handed thrust.

"Happy birthday, Bub," Logan growled, a faint, dark smirk tugging at the corner of his scarred mouth. "Drink up before I decide to finish both kegs myself."

The heavy wooden door of The Rust Bucket, a low-lit dive bar sitting just on the outskirts of Madripoor's industrial district, thudded shut behind you. Inside, the place smelled like stale peanuts, cheap sawdust, and decades of spilled draft beer.

Over in a corner booth, the table had been completely cleared of glasses, bowls, and salt shakers. In their place sat three massive, unrefined steel kegs of high-proof, black-market spirits, each stamped with red military warning stenciling.

Sitting behind them was Logan.

He looked every bit the rugged biker in his off-duty garb—a dark, faded black tank top clinging tightly to his massive, pliant pecs and exposing the dense layer of dark, fuzzy hair on his chest and arms. His thick, scruffy mutton chops framed a jawline set in its usual stoic scowl, his dark-brown hazel eyes tracking you the moment you stepped into the booth. His dark hair flared naturally near his temples, messy and unstyled.

"You're late, kid," Logan grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rasp above the jukebox. He didn't wait for you to sit before sliding a heavy glass mug of amber liquor across the sticky tabletop. "Sit down and keep your eyes open. I need a witness who isn't a lying bastard."

He leaned forward, his absurdly bulky, 310-pound frame causing the wooden booth to groan under his weight. He rested a thick, hair-dusted forearm on the edge of the first keg, his massive biceps peaking as he tapped his calloused knuckles against the steel.

"Puck and Hercules thought they were being funny back at the hangar," Logan muttered, clamping an unlit cigar between his teeth. "Puck laid down five grand saying my liver’s too much of a freak for me to catch a buzz, no matter how much I pour down my throat. Herc doubled it. Said if I can’t stay legally, perceptibly hammered for one full minute—sixty damn seconds—I owe 'em both a custom bike."

He let out a sharp, cynical snort, reaching out with a thick thumb to pop the heavy brass seal off the top of the first keg.

"The rule was simple: high-proof military grain alcohol, no slowing down, no stopping to breathe. I gotta dump enough of this poison into my system in a twenty-second window to outrun my healing factor before the cells clean it out."

Logan grabbed the keg by its heavy iron handles, his massive chest expanding as he lifted the entire fifty-pound container off the table with zero effort, tilting the open spout toward his mouth.

"Your job is simple, Bub," he growled, pausing for just a second to lock eyes with you from beneath his heavy, low brow. "Watch the stopwatch. The second my eyes go soft or I start slurring, you start counting. If I pull this off, we're taking Herc's money and buying out every decent steakhouse between here and Alberta."

Without another word, Logan tipped his head back and opened his throat, guzzling the high-octane liquor straight from the keg in a violent, non-stop chug that rattled the heavy steel against his teeth.

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